


Falling

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Heroin, Relapse, graphic drug use, if you squint maybe, johnlock kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling

Falling

The light from the fire glinted off the syringe in the darkened room, the only light source in 221b. He was cross-legged on the floor, this shirt sleeve rolled up, a tourniquet tied tightly around the crook of his elbow. The lighter and spoon lay discarded to one side, forgotten as soon as the brown liquid filled the needle. The firelight flickered off the pale blue of the consulting detective’s eyes, as his pupils dilated and contracted every time a tongue of orange light hit his retinas.

            Anticipation hung in the air, a dangerous, almost tangible anticipation. It was a waiting game. Just a few more seconds. The vein was almost at the surface. His skin itched to feel the prickle of the needle piercing him; his mind craved the high that would soon follow. John would be angry…no, no, not angry, he contemplated, _Mycroft_ would be angry. John,,,-John would be disappointed. The thought of _his_ John, the ex-soldier, his doctor, being disappointed in him made him hesitate. But the drug, the sweet temptation, the siren call of the high was stronger.

            He clenched his hand into a fist, willing the vein to protrude faster. His eyes widened, knowing that in a few short moment… _yes!_ He swiftly pressed the cool metal of the needle into his skin, the sting of the syringe bringing sheer bliss to the detective. The plunger was pushed down and the drug rushed into his bloodstream. Almost immediately he was hit with a guilt so forceful it made him whimper in shock.

            Christ, what has he done? Stupid, stupid! He’d let the addiction get the better of him once again. How could he let a…-a chemical compound take control of him so freely!? He pulled the needle from his flesh and tossed it away in disgust. He got to his feet shakily, gripping the mantle for support. He stared at the man in the mirror, his face turned up into a sneer.

            _What a pathetic piece of filth,_ a voice in the back of his mind whispered venomously, in a soft Irish lilt, _You’re dull, Sherlock, dull…boring…predictable…you can’t do anything right, can you? Ever the disappointment, Sherlock Holmes. Good for nothing, worthless, a mockery of a human being. Ohhh…you’ve really screwed up this time, Sherly! Oh! What’s that? Do I hear your very faaaaavourite pet arriving home? I think I do!_

“Shut up!” Sherlock growled, clutching his head between his hands, his face contorted in frustration. His heart rate picked up, the heroin taking full effect. His head was fuzzy, yet clear, relaxed yet so utterly racing. He dropped to his knees, breathing heavily.

Oh John…John, I’m so sorry! His mind cried out as the doctor entered the flat.

            John’s face creased in confusion as he was met with the dark flat, the fire throwing shadows all over the living room. His eyes searched for Sherlock in the dim light.

“Sherlock? Where…-why’s it so dark in here?”

He flicked the light on, locking onto the figure kneeling on the floor.

“Sherlock?..What..-What’s going on? What’s the matter?”

He made to move forward, hesitating,

“Sher…-“ He caught the syringe on the floor out of the corner of his eye. He clamped a hand over his mouth, holding back an angry outburst. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady.

“Sherlock. Please tell me you didn’t. C’mon. Look at me.”

He strode forward, reaching out to grip the younger man’s shoulder. Sherlock’s head twitched slightly, as if he was contemplating looking John in the eye, but he kept his gaze fixed forward, staring into the fire. John moved in front of him, crouching down and taking his face between his hands. He made a mental index, taking in the detective’s dilated pupils, the tourniquet around his arm. He felt his pulse, which was sky-high. Like the detective himself.

“Sherlock…” He murmured gently, “Sherlock, why?”

Sherlock’s eyes watered, tears beginning to drip down his pale cheeks.

“I…-“ he began roughly, his voice hoarse, “it was there…- It’s been there for a long time and I..-I broke, I gave in…I’ve lost control, John, I’m sorry!”

“Come here, shhh…” John pulled the sobbing detective to his chest, holding him still, “Shhh…come one, it’s okay…we’ll…-we’ll get you through this…” He soothed.

He knew addiction was difficult, hard to overcome, and extremely dangerous if left unchecked.

“Is there any more, Sherlock?”

The detective shook his head, mumbling into John’s jumper.

“N-no. That was the last of it…”

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m disappointed Sherlock…I am, but…-I know how difficult overcoming an addiction is, I’ve seen it all before. I’ve seen…-I’ve seen it ruin lives, and end them. It’s a messy, horrible way to go…and I don’t want to come home some day and find you lying there dead, Sherlock. I can’t lose you again…please, Sherlock, if you ever find yourself near this sort of thing again, talk to me. Please. Promise me.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He concentrated, focused on John’s voice alone, to try and fine some stability in his drug-addled brain.

“Okay,” he whispered, “Okay…I’ll…-I’ll do that…I’m sorry.”

“stop apologising, you git. I’m not going to say it’s not your fault, because it is, and I think you know that. I worry about you, mate. You’re my best friend, and seeing you do this to yourself, seeing you so…- so self-destructive…it…- it breaks my heart, it truly does. So…please…-for me- don’t do it again.”

Sherlock pulled back from John, his eyes red-rimmed and his face tear-stained. His bit his lip, and nodded.

“For you,” he muttered, wringing his hands together.

“Come on,” John said, standing up and offering a hand out, “bed. You need to sleep through this. I’ll stay with you.”

The consulting detective took the doctor’s hand, his legs trembling beneath him. John helped Sherlock through to his bedroom, settling him down and sitting next to him. He stroked a hand through the dark, curly hair.

“Go to sleep,’ he murmured, “I’m here with you.”

- 


End file.
